The Song Remains The Same
by TGREBIJKSR
Summary: in the upcoming generations after the Great War, every child is born with a curious countdown on their wrist. its a countdown to the day they find their soul mate. this is the story of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and how their counters finally hit zero.' Rated for later chapters
1. Chapter 1

Everyone is born the same here. Twelve pounds, eight ounces. Any heavier or lighter and youre unhealthy, kept in the hospital until youre better. Youre wrapped in a yellow blanket, no matter what sex you are, and put in a small sink for cleaning. I guess thats the most normal part about it; the cleaning. Then after the cleaning, youre given to your mother or father and taken home six hours later. Then you live normally for four or five years. Then _it_ appears. You ask your parents about it, and they all say the exact same thing. They have to.

It happens when it reaches zero. All six numbers; year, month, week, hour, minute, and second. It doesnt happen all at once, no of course not. Its a countdown. It happens over a lifetime. Some numbers never reach zero, some reach zero too fast. Others reset and start all over again, or drop a few years unexpectedly. Some even gain a few unexpected years. Nobody ever likes that. Especially the school girls, giggling excitedly about when it would happen. Some kids never talked about it. Others even kept it covered. Ive always had a theory that theirs were already at zero and they were embarrassed about it.

Oh, I guess youre probably wondering what _iti _is.

After the first through third war generations were wiped out, there werent many people left. It didnt take long, either, what with the infection and disease going around. One virus in particular, created by the government to wipe out the disease, went airbourne, and instead of killing only the infected, it killed everyone. Every sick and healthy person alike. Except those who were in hiding or born into families that were in hiding. There werent many actual blood related families anymore. Just people close enough to be called family. My grandmother, who was in her thirties at the time, was close with a few people she called family. Our family and their family are still close.

Anyway, the first child born after the infection was wiped out and almost everyone was dead, was a little boy they called Mika. He was a beautiful kid, or so I was told, with bright eyes and dark hair. But, since he was the first born with _it_ they didnt know what to do. And they killed him. But then the second baby after the virus was released was born and someone had the sense to keep it alive. The baby grew up with this thing on his wrist; a set of numbers. Everybody thought the countdown was a death countdown. His read 16:04:05:00:12:43 when he was born. Sixteen years, four months, five hours, twelve minutes, and 43 seconds. And when it was finally in the seconds, everyone panicked. The family had been travelling to another 'state' to find family they hoped were alive. Of course they werent, but they happened along another family, who were also in hysterics.

When the boy met the other families son, his counter zipped to zero. And so, apparently, did the son from the other family. Everyone was astounded. It seemed the other family had been worried that it was a death countdown, too, and were more than happy when both boys were still alive after it hit zero. The two boys shook hands and smiled. They happened to glance at eachothers wrists in the process and saw the countdown. So naturally, they spent a lot of time together. They were, after all, two of a kind. And also the first of the new generation.

The boys spent their lives together, eventually getting married and settling down in the New New New New New- well, this could take a while, but it was originally somewhere near where Georgia was in the 2000's. Since they were the first, they never figured out what the countdown meant, but over time, it was originally discovered. The countdown, was a countdown to the day you met your soul mate. I know, sounds cheesy, but its true.

When your timer resets, that probably means your soul mate moved away or something. If it drops to zero, they most likely died. If it drops to zero then resets, it was a near-death experience. Sometimes, in odd cases that have been studied for years, youre born with all zeros. Those people usually wear specially designed wrist cuffs to cover their marker, just because theyre embarrassed about it.

My name is Mish. But this isnt my story. This isnt even the story of those two boys, even though it was quite a happy one. No, this is the story of two boys who had never really fit in, had kind of hard lives, but found eachother in the end. Yeah, its kinda sad, but its one of my favourite stories that I was told as a child. Im in my twenties now, but I still love this story. It means a lot to me. Because this is the story of two men and how they overcame every obstacle in their path to come together. Even though one hated the idea of a soul mate and the other was rather indifferent about it. One kept resetting. The other jumped around a lot.

This is the story of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

**okay. not really sure where this chapter came from, just felt like writing. sorry if its crap D': just for the record, i absolutely love Molly; youll see why im saying this. and i dont know the age gap between Harry and John, Sherlock and Mycroft, or Sherlock and John, so if you know, please tell me and ill fix it :) erm. thanks for reading :D**

* * *

"Sherlock, honey! Youre gonna be late for-"

"Babe, he left an hour ago."

Sherlock Holmes' mother sighed and smiled, shaking her head a bit as she poured coffee into two cups. Her husband stood behind her with a hand on her hip. He kissed her cheek then moved to sit at the table. "He's seven today," she said, sliding a cup of coffee cross the table to her husband before sitting down across from him. He sighed heavily and nodded. "He's going to want to know soon."

The man across from her nodded slowly setting his coffee down and wrapping his hands around the cup. He wished Sherlock was good with people, or at least a little social. It was hard telling children what the countdown on the wrist was. They usually didnt understand what a "soul mate" was. It had been easier to tell Mycroft when he was Sherlock's age, because he had a few friends. But not Sherlock. Sherlock sat in the library or in detention all day for correcting teachers. He was a brilliant child, but sometimes his father wished he could just be normal, more like Mycroft.

"And theres no way hes just going to find out, huh?" he asked with a small smile, looking up at his wife. She shook her head and smiled back. "Okay. First thing after school."

xxx

"Sherlock! Hey, Sherlock, come 'ere!" Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, turning around. A girl, no older than he was, stood in front of him, her blonde hair in pigtails and her grey eyes shining bright. She was bouncing on her toes slightly and rubbing her wrist absently. Sherlock thought she looked like a complete idiot. "Happy birthday, Sherlock!" She stepped forward and threw her arms around his neck. He stumbled a bit before pushing her back and stepping away from her. He straightened his coat out and fixed his hair before shoving his hands into his pockets.

"What is it that you want, Molly?" he asked irritated.

"I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday!" she said with a smile. He could see the gap where she had recently lost a tooth. He absently felt over the space where he was growing a new tooth.

"Okay. Goodbye, Molly." He didnt feel the need to talk to her any longer; she had said what she intended to say and that was all. He turned to walk away but a small hand grabbed his arm.

"Wait, Sherlock! Arent you excited?" Sherlock shook her arm off and rolled his eyes, sighing before turning around. She held her wrist out to him and he took a step back; she was far too close for comfort.

"Excited for what, Molly?" he asked, clasping his hands behind his back.

Her mouth dropped open with a _pop_ and she shook her head. "Silly, Sherlock!" she giggled. "Excited to find your soul mate! Yanno, the person youre gonna spend the rest of your life with?"

His dark eyebrows went together and he looked at her as if she had just dropped out of the sky. "Excuse me? What?" he asked, confused. She looked at him a moment before grabbing his hand and pulling his sleeve up, pointing to the small white 'paneling' on his wrist.

"This. Its a countdown. When it hits zero, youve met your soul mate," she explained with a big smile. Sherlock looked down and examined her wrist. It had nine years and some odd months and so on. Then he turned and looked at his own wrist; it had over thirty years on it. He frowned and looked back up at her, confused.

"Im going to find my soul mate in thirty years?" he asked.

She looked down at his wrist before laughing. "Thirty years? Youre gonna be alone forever!" she laughed before walking away.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the middle of the hallway, staring down at his wrist. Alone forever? That couldnt be true. Molly was lying! She was a mean person and Sherlock didnt like her. With that thought in mind, he walked to the nearest person - a boy a few years older than him - and grabbed his wrist; six years. Then he walked up to another person, a girl in his class, and grabbed her wrist; twelve years. It seemed nobody he checked had over twenty years. He was the only one.

And Sherlock Holmes, for the first time in his life, felt sadness. And anger. Why didnt his parents tell him? Is that why he was teased so much? Was he really going to be alone forever? He went to his cubby and grabbed his book bag, slinging it over his shoulder before walking outside. He stood on the front step of his school for a minute before stepping down, turning, and running home.

When he finally got home, it was nearly noon, and his parents were sitting on the couch drinking tea. Mycroft was sitting on a chair beside them, watching television and laughing. Sherlock ran to them and threw his bookbag down, much to his parents and brothers surprise. Mycroft rose and watched him, as did his parents. He looked absolutely outrage; something they had never seen on him before. It was frightening.

"Why didnt you tell me?" he asked, thrusting his wrist out to his parents. "That im going to be alone forever?" There were tears in his eyes but he refused to let them fall. If he had known, he could have hid it and avoided the teasing. Or at least thats what he was thinking as he stood in front of his parents.

"Oh, honey. We were going to tell you today. We didnt think you were old enough. And what do you mean alone forever? Thirty years isnt that long," his mother said, stepping forward with a smile. His father was behind her, smiling as well, and Mycroft was back on the couch, laughing silently. He loved his brother, of course he did, but he was fourteen and couldnt be nice to his baby brother, of course not. Somewhere, deep inside of him, he felt horrible for the boy. Because his counter was over thirty years and he knew how he was feeling.

Sherlock backed away from his parents and ran to the stairs. "Its not fair! Everybody is going to have someone but me! Im going to die alone!" he shouted angrily. His parents and brother were shocked. They had never heard the boy even raise his voice before, and there he was, screaming his lungs out at them.

"Sherlock Holmes, you watch your tone!" his father said, pointing up the stairs. "Room. Now." With one last scream, the youngest Holmes threw his bookbag down and ran up the stairs, locking his bedroom door behind him, then going to sit in his closet, closing the door and sitting in the corner.

"Im alone," he murmured. "But thats okay. Alone is good. Alone protects me."

He wiped his eyes and leaned against the wall, vowing to never ever think about his countdown, not to let it bother him. At least for another thirty years, that is.

* * *

John Watson sat up in his bed and stretched, popping his back as he did so. He glanced down at his wrist - it was the same as yesterday; thirty years. The nine year old groaned and rolled out of bed, rubbing his wrist as he did so. It had been stinging lately. Sometimes it hurt like no pain he could ever imagine. He liked to imagine that his future wife was somewhere thinking about him and thats what happened when she did. He was a romantic, even for a young boy, and he couldnt wait until the counter hit zero. He wished he could skip thirty years and meet her right then and there.

"John! Breakfast!" He looked toward the sound of his sisters' voice and groaned. It was early and all he wanted to do was think about his future. He wanted the whole wife and two kids, picket fence, puppy future. In his head, it was perfect.

"Good morning, Harry," he mumbled as he stepped out of his door, scratching the back of his neck. She grabbed his hand and dragged him downstairs, pulling him to the table and pushing him down in a seat. His parents were sitting at the table, too, and Harriet took the seat beside him.

"Mom, dad, John. I have good news," Harry said, smiling and rubbing her wrist. They all looked over at her. John was the only one who seemed to notice the shimmer in her eye or the bounce in her step. He was surely the only one who noticed the way she was rubbing her wrist.

"What is it, Harry?" their mother asked with a smile.

The eleven year old smiled before holding her wrist out toward them. "I met my soul mate this morning on my run!" she said excitedly. Everyones mouth dropped and they stared at the counter. Harry was proud; her counter now matched her parents. That was one thing every kid longed for. But not John. John was just jealous. He had known his sister would find her soul mate long before he did, but he couldnt help but feel extremely jealous of her. She wasnt a romantic like him. She had never really cared for her soul mate before, not like he had.

"Congratulations, Harry!" their father said with a smile. "When do we get to meet the lucky man?"

Harriet's smile dropped and she looked down, rubbing her wrist. "Oh, well, you see, thats the thing. Its... Um, its not a _he_. Its a _she__.." _She looked up and met her fathers eyes. They were completely void of all emotions and so were their mothers'. "Her name is Clara and shes really nice, please just give her a chance," she pleaded.

Their father stood up and pushed his chair in. "Ill be in my study, if anyone needs me," he said with a nod before walking off. Harry turned toward her mother.

"Mom?" she said quietly. The older woman stood up and walked out of the room, pushing in her chair on the way. Harriet turned to John. "You going to leave, too?"

John shook his head. "Im happy for you, Harry," he said truthfully. "Id love to meet Clara."

And that was the first time John Watson could ever remember his sister smiling at him. They had never really gotten on to well, and it was a miracle that they were getting along then. John silently thanked god, or whoever was listening, for their parents being jerks, because he really did love his big sister and wished they got along better.

That night before John went to sleep, he glanced down at his wrist and rubbed it thoughtfully. "I love you. Whoever you are," he whispered to it. "Goodnight."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock Holmes was turning twenty, no doubt about that. He had his curly dark hair brushed back and his long limbs were tangled up in a blue robe. The detective sat in his favourtie chair reading a newspaper, looking for a case and hoping his parents or dear brother didnt try to call him or come over. He was just another year older, he didnt see the need to celebrate that. He thought it best to go about his normal business.

The consulting detective went to take a sip of his tea, barely getting the cup to his lips before he felt a sharp pain in his chest. He dropped the cup and clutched his chest with both of his thin hands, pulling his knees to his chest. His left hand went to rub the his right wrist and he silently cursed himself. "Im sorry," he whispered to no one. "Im sorry I died before I got to meet you." He continued to rub his wrist as pain shot through his chest in a spider-web like fashion. He moved to lay on his small couch, his legs still pulled up to his chest.

It was then that he finally looked down at his wrist; he was dying, surely it was at zero. And it was, he discovered, but he wasnt dead. And the pain was suddenly gone. It wasnt him that was dying; it was his soul mate. And Sherlock could feel every ounce of pain they felt. He'd been in pain before, sure, but never quite like that; never that intense. It was as if his insides were on fire and his write was shooting pain up his arm like a snake bite.

Nearly half an hour later, the pain stopped. Sherlock huffed a sigh of relief and looked down at his wrist. His heart dropped. It was still at zero. His soul mate really had died. He lay back down on the couch, rubbing his wrist gently with the thumb of his other hand and silently praying to whoever was listening that he wouldnt be alone forever. Sherlock Holmes did not want to die alone. He knew that from a young age. He loved to be alone, yes, but he didnt want to die alone. He had seen how those people turned out, the people with their counters at zero but still alone. Most of them committed suicide or became heavy drinkers.

xxx

Sherlock awoke on the couch nearly seven hours later with his chest in immense pain once more. He placed one and on his heart, the other moving to sweep his bangs back. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a few deep breaths before speaking to the silence of the room.

"Damn it," he said between clenched teeth. "Please be okay. Please. For me."

He leaned his head back against the arm of the couch, trying to concentrate on anything but the pain in his shoulder and chest. He looked down at his counter instead. The numbers were flickering, from zero to twenty, then back to zero. At one point, it had flickered all the way up to forty before dropping back down to zero.

"Its okay," he murmured. "Its not your fault.. Blimey, im talking to my wrist." The twenty-year-old man shook his head before sitting up. He rubbed his temples as he stood up, pulling his robe around himself only to have it fall back to the sides. He made his way slowly to the kitchen, expecting his chest to explode in another bout of extreme pain. It didnt happen though. He made his tea and walked back to his favourite chair, crossing one leg over the other and sipping it carefully. Sherlock glanced at the clock and sighed. He was hoping his family wouldnt bother him on his birthday, but he knew his brother would. He always did. Every day on his birthday at exactly three o'clock, Mycroft Holmes would ring his little brother and wish him a happy birthday.

"Two more minutes," he said wearily, sighing and setting his tea on the table beside him.

And just like cloclwork, two minutes later, his cellular rang. He rolled his eyes and picked it up, pressing 'talk' and saying, "Dear brother. Right on time."

Mycroft gave a humourless laugh and Sherlock could imagine his brother in his own home, sitting much like he was, tilting his head back a fraction and laughing before turning to look back at the fire place in front of him. Mycroft had always been an old soul, doing things like their father did, even though he was only seven years Sherlock's senior. "Yes, brother," Mycroft finally spoke. "Happy birthday, Sherlock." Mycroft and Sherlock had never really gotten on to well but Sherlock could tell his brother was sincere. They didnt necessarily like each other, but they were family, and would always love each other.

"Thank you, Mycroft, but dont you have a government to run?" Sherlock said with a small smile.

Mycroft laughed again. "Always the joker, you are, Sherlock. But yes, I suppose I do have a job I should be doing right now." They didnt say goodbye. They never did, they just hung up. And today, on Sherlock Holmes' twentieth birthday, that was no different. Nothing was different, except now his soul mate was dead. And then alive. And then dead once more.

Sherlock set his phone down and sighed, wishing that, for once, his older brother would have stayed on the phone with him a bit longer.

* * *

"Clear!" John Watson was choking on his own blood. He knew that, but he couldnt help but try to breath. It hurt to breath, but it hurt even more not to. He had been shot. It wasnt the first time he had gotten shot at, but it was the first time a bullet had actually pierced his skin. It didnt go as deep as a bullet normally would, because of all the layers he was wearing to prevent the bite of the cold weather, but it had still managed to lodge itself into his shoulder. The twenty-five year old was laying on his back on a dingy medical table in a tent back at base, having a bullet dug out of his shoulder, and all he could think about was how sorry he was. Sorry he couldnt save anyone because he was too busy getting saved himself, sorry for never calling his sister back, and above all, he was sorry he hadnt met his soul mate yet and that he or she was going to die alone. He rubbed his wrist and sent a silent prayer up to god that the person, whoever and wherever they were, that they wouldnt be alone.

"I dont want to die," he mumbled out loud. He was aware that he was breathing somewhat normally again, and that there was a nurse beside him telling him to calm down, but he didnt care. "I dont want to die," he repeated. "Please dont let me die."

"Calm down, Doctor Watson! Please, stay still. You wont die. We'll fix you up and youll be good as new." He recognized the voice of the nurse. It was one of the men on his unit. They'd been shipped in together. He'd already met his soul mate, gotten married, and had two kids together. He had more to live for than John did, and he suddenly felt the need to pray for the thirty-something nurse to get home safely to his family.

"I cant die," John Watson repeated to no one in particular. The nurse answered him anyway.

"I know, John, I know. Oh god, please just h-" The voice faded out. He no longer felt the pain. His wrist tingled and he knew he was dead. He could see his own body, his chest covered in blood. The nurse was standing over him, frantically whispering for him to stay alive, to please keep breathing. There was a rush in his ears and he suddenly felt the pain again. There was no odd tingling in his wrist, but he felt the pain again. John Watson was alive.

He gulped in a huge air of breath only to be sent into another coughing fit. The nurse shoved a tube down his throat to help him breathe and he nearly gagged on it. "You'll be alright, John. John, can you hear me?" The army doctor could hear the nurse, but he couldnt feel anything. His entire body had gone numb with pain and he couldnt handle it any longer. He slipped into unconsciousness.

xxx

When John woke up, it was bright out. There was a patch of sunlight near the foot of the cot he lay on and his shoulder was throbbing. He turned his head and saw that it had been wrapped, by the looks of it, a few hours before. There was a small spot of blood leaking through the center of the bandage and he winced at the sight of it.

"Doctor Watson." John turned toward the opening of the tent and smiled. It was the nurse, his hair brushed back and his scrubs clean of John's blood. "Im glad to see you up and breathing on your own."

"Yes, all thanks to you, nurse," he said as he sat up. He winced before leaning back against the wall.

"Oh, no, it wasnt all me," the nurse said with a laugh. "Im sorry to say this but.. I think theyre going to discharge you." The nurse's smile dropped and he sat on the foot of the cot. John's mouth dropped open and he shook his head.

"But im fine. It was just a little wound. Itll heal!" He moved to sit up but the nurse stopped him, grabbing his hand.

"It did more than damage your skin, John. Youll be getting shipped out in an hour. And dont try to walk to hard on your left side. Again, im so sorry, John." John sighed and nodded. "But hey, look at the bright side, Watson. That counter says five now doesnt it? Before, it said thrity-six."

John blinked and looked down at his wrist. It did, in fact, say five years. He smiled and looked back up at the nurse. "Yes, I suppose it does," he said. the nurse nodded and stood up, handing John a cane as he walked out of the tent.

John Watson sat on the cot for hours, contemplating everything from the war to his soul mate. Mostly his soul mate, though, if he was being honest with himself. He thought about their name and what they would look like. He hoped they would have dark hair; he had always been attracted to it, since his first kiss in the fourth grade with a girl named Milly. She had had dark hair. But it didnt matter, because whoever he or she was, they were meant for him, and he for them.

"Youre such an old sap," he said to himself with a laugh as he grabbed the cane and pushed himself up on it. It hurt, he noticed, from his left shoulder to his left leg. "Damn." With one last look around the tent, he hobbled out and went to find the nurse to bid him adieu.


End file.
